


the dullest shard of bone

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [22]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: (a little in a gay way), Angst, Depression, Gen, HoT Spoilers, Interpersonal Conflict, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, but this is very much a gen fic, roza hashes it out with trahearne, then realizes he's not so bad after all but not in a gay way no no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: It is something he has always lived with. What would he be without it?A look on Roza's relationship with his personal demons and the way it makes him think.~major warning for suicidal thoughts, although nothing attempted.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: roza [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	the dullest shard of bone

**Author's Note:**

> gonna repeat it again just in case! this is basically suicidal thoughts the fic - about 7.6k words of them! oki ;u;

The first time Roza thinks about it he is… young.

Far younger than he ought to be to think about such things, he later learns. But what does he know now? He is barely a month old. For all he is aware, this is a normal thing to contemplate. His life has no purpose—he has been dumped here, unwanted and unwelcome by both the people who dumped him and the ones he was dumped upon. There is little else to do but dwell on his situation.

And he is a necromancer. He is a sylvari. Should he not be curious about death?

He sits on the edge of the roof of one of the Vigil’s highest towers, legs swinging without a care and carefree over black, jagged rocks. He considers.

“I am going to jump,” he says out loud, to test the words out. Should they feel wrong? Right? He does not feel any fear, so he boldly continues. “I am going to see if Zhaitan truly cannot resurrect sylvari. Perhaps I will prove everybody else wrong, and they will be happy that I have given them such valuable knowledge. They will—they will—”

He stops talking, because his voice has begun to tremble. They will notice him. They will praise him. Is that not what he wants?

He stares down into the darkness below. He can see nothing.

“Will I be a failure?” he whispers to it.

There is no reply save for the low moaning of the wind, louder than his thoughts. Roza shivers. It is so cold up here.

He decides to go back inside, because it is too cold for him to think for long enough to come to a decision. Yes. That is why he returns. It is not because he is _afraid_ of death—certainly not! He is an accomplished necromancer. He _embraces_ death. He welcomes its… embrace. He is not terribly good with words. Perhaps they have mentors here who can teach him more of them. Perhaps Trahearne will change his mind about not wanting him, and rescue him from this isolating place.

He can hope.

~*~

This is not the second time he has thought about it.

He is standing on that familiar rooftop, shivering, blunt teeth biting painfully into his fist. The wind stings his eyes, and he welcomes the pain. It has to _match_. The inside must match the outside, for what is beauty if it is not marred by hideousness? What is he, to not be hurting in every way he possibly can, as though he does not deserve just that?

He sobs into the air, and the sharp wind steals the sound from his mouth and the breath from his chest. He is forced to inhale, raggedly, feeling his chest rattle as if it truly is as hollow as it feels. Good. The inside must match the outside.

He is so small, up here against the whole world. He feels so weak. The wind could effortlessly sweep him over the edge as if he were so much insignificant dust, and he does not know whether he would welcome it or not. How pathetic must he be if he cannot even know his own thoughts?

He takes his fist away from his mouth and brings both his hands up to cover his face. His fingers are cold, hard sticks, not so much a comfort as they are bars to block his vision. He is so colourless. He is so lifeless. He is so much of nothing.

He turns and leaves. He is also a coward. A coward who will remain in his insignificant existence for at least one more day. He is of no use to anyone. He is of no _worth_ to anyone. Except perhaps… perhaps…

He stops by a specific door, but on purpose this time. Knocks, twice. Quiet but compact, from his knuckles.

The door opens to reveal Laranthir’s face, placid and listless. It gains some expression as it takes him in, sharpening into awareness. Roza does not know what he looks like, although he is certain his is a face a child would not want to be presented with at night. He waits simply, either for acceptance or rejection.

“Roza?” What is that in his voice? Concern? Sternness? Roza cannot identify it.

“May I come in?” he asks.

He doesn’t know what he sounds like, but Laranthir’s demeanor shifts immediately, although minutely. He nods, stepping back and opening the door wide enough to allow him through. Roza enters the room without taking in any of its details. His eyes cannot stick to anything; they simply slide off, as if attaching to reality is too difficult a task.

“Can you not sleep?” Laranthir asks after what may be either a few seconds or many minutes.

Roza wonders if he should tell him that he was about to kill himself. “No,” he answers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

That one is easy. “No.”

Laranthir only nods, as if he hadn’t expected more of a response than that. He goes over to a bed—larger than Roza’s, with rumpled blankets—at the end of the room, climbing in. He holds the covers up.

“Here,” he says.

Roza processes what he thinks is he is being offered. He feels some part of his forehead twitch. “You want me to lie next to you?”

It is embarrassing to have to ask for clarification, but he does not understand. Laranthir nods again, which is… confusing.

“If you would like. It may provide some comfort,” he says softly, his voice barely audible in the foggy silence of the room.

Roza steps forwards unthinkingly. He forgets, for the moment, that that is seen as a predatory movement. “You do not think I will kill you in your sleep? Knife you, perhaps? Drain your life force?”

Laranthir cocks his head. The hand holding the covers up drops by a few inches, but does not let go.

“I do not think you will attack me, Roza.” His voice still has that same unrushed cadence, as if Roza has not said anything to anger or scare him. “Especially not unprovoked. It is normal for our kind to share space like this, actually. We are quite social creatures.”

Roza is too boggled by the first half of his statement to pay much attention to the second. He is… not a threat? He takes a sudden stride forward, quick and un-telegraphed, to test the veridity of Laranthir’s words. His mentor blinks in lethargic surprise, but does not react with any fear. Roza knows this for certain—he would have been able to sense it.

Before he can think thrice about it, he forces his body to move forwards and climbs stiffly into the bed. Laranthir smiles and throws the blankets up over him. Roza lays there, motionless and uncertain, staring up at the ceiling. He can smell cedar.

There is movement as Laranthir reaches around him and for some reason adjusts how he is covered. “To ensure you are comfortable,” he elaborates when Roza fixes him with a puzzled stare.

What? The point of sleep is not to be comfortable. He is about to point how ridiculous that sounds, but then Laranthir leans forwards and presses his—lips?—to his forehead.

Roza’s mind scatters. He can feel this—this— _emotion_ , this gradual, warm sensation, seeping out from Laranthir. It is similar to what he himself feels sometimes during their meetings, but at a hazy intensity that he suspects might be at least partly due to the late hour. The mind is at its most .unguarded at night.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a strangled whisper.

Laranthir laughs softly, which is so strange, really, because Roza was more or less ready to kill himself ten minutes ago. It is a warm, gentle sound, drowsy on the edges and drenched in that same… emotion. He has absolutely no idea what to make of it. He does not know why it makes him want to cry.

“I am saying goodnight,” Laranthir replies, equally quiet. “Do you mind?”

Roza hesitantly rocks his head from side to side. He… more than does not mind.

“Well then. Goodnight, Roza. I am right here if you want to come closer.”

He turns onto his back and closes his eyes. Roza watches the slow, leisurely pulse of his glow. Dim, then out. Back again, almost bright. Dim once more.

 _I do not deserve you_ , he thinks desperately at the still, peaceful form next to him.

Bright. Dim. Gone. Dim. Roza’s own pattern has almost synched up by now.

_You do not deserve this. I should not be your burden! I should not darken your days. I should…_

Dim. Gone. Coming back. Laranthir breathes in, then out.

He had felt like _affection_.

Roza bites his fist, hard, to break the sob rising in his chest. Fine, then—he will stay alive. He does not want to cause Laranthir any more pain than he already has. And yes, maybe he _would_ do everyone a favour by throwing himself off the nearest rooftop. But…

He can wait a little while longer.

~*~

Roza is no longer completely useless.

Well, it is a near thing, to be fair. He has absolutely no idea why Trahearne picked _him_ to be his second-in-command, but he did, and now Roza is stuck in the role. It is not that he minds, really—it at least gives him something to do—but he is puzzled as to why he was even a candidate in the first place, let alone the one who was chosen. Trahearne seemingly knows many people. Could he not find someone far more qualified, not to mention that he got along with far more?

The new marshal stops him one evening after a meeting about the next step of their assault on Orr. Roza feels a tentative hand clasp his shoulder, and when he turns around to shrug it off, looks up into the bright eyes of Trahearne.

“Commander.” A smile that borders on uncertain. Strange—he has become much more confident during these past few months. “Ah—Roza. May I speak to you in private? Whenever you have a moment.”

Roza is free now. He shrugs, moving aside to let the other people filter out of the command tent. Almorra brushes him with her tail as she moves past, something he has only otherwise seen her do with Laranthir. He straightens in a half salute, raising his chin and pushing back his shoulders.

He remains standing to attention even as the tent flap drops behind the last person to exist. “What can I do for you, Marshal?”

Trahearne runs a tense hand through his foliage, dry leaves crinkling under his touch. Unlike Roza, his hair seems to have slowly gotten worse throughout their campaign, leaves curling at the edges and stems turning brown and limp. It is a little amusing, Roza thinks meanly. And now they pass each other in their misfortunes, and his presence decays everything within its reach.

“I wanted to speak with you about a… personal matter,” Trahearne says at last, seemingly collecting himself. “If it is alright with you, that is. I understand if you have other business you must attend to.”

A personal matter? Roza could refuse, but he is somewhat curious, he will admit. “I have time. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Trahearne flashes him a small smile. “The truth is… more often than not nowadays, I find myself consumed by doubt. I know I should not, especially as the eve of my Wyld Hunt’s completion nears, but I cannot help it. My apprehension only grows.” He shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “What if I fail? Years ago, the possibility that there simply _was_ no solution to cleansing Orr was there, but it was a distant dilemma. Now I could be faced with it next month. Next week, even.”

Ah. He is asking Roza for… advice? _Reassurance_ , some part of his mind that remembers Laranthir’s treasured kindness whispers. He ignores it. “You would abandon our entire offensive against Zhaitan because of a few doubts?” he says harshly.

Trahearne looks startled. “No! No, that is not what I meant to imply at all.” He holds up his hands, half a plea. “I simply… wanted to know your thoughts, I suppose.”

Roza glances him over, taking in his body language. Defensive and a little protective, with eyes peeking at him from their corners. In the Dream he is… guarded. He is a firstborn. He knows how to hide what he does not wish to show.

There is the fact that he is hiding at all. It bothers Roza, somewhere in the side of his mind, making his mouth want to twist and only spit curt words. He always knew Trahearne didn’t like him, but…

His gaze flits away, down and off. “Elder Dragon corruption is reversible,” he says simply. “It has been done before. Killing one has not. Your quest may be the key to that victory.”

Trahearne’s expression shifts. “Of course—your own Wyld Hunt. I am being selfish. Right now, it is the more difficult of our tasks—”

“The _Pact’s_ victory,” Roza interrupts. “Is what I meant.”

Trahearne wets his lips. “Ah. Right.”

Roza remembers something Laranthir had told him once. Begrudgingly, he voices it: “It is not about who is fighting the bigger battle. Or helping someone with theirs only so they will help you with yours. It is about fighting in _union._ United together, we stand stronger than divided apart.”

Trahearne smiles. He realizes in some surprise that this time, it is much more genuine. “Those are wise words, Commander.”

“Mm.” Roza shrugs one shoulder noncommittally, unwilling to attribute himself to either the phrase or that observation. “Common sense.”

Trahearne lets out a small chuckle. “As is everything you say, and I did not expect any less. I am glad for your rationality, Roza. Of course you would not dedicate yourself to an idealistic cause.”

Roza hums again, shifting a little uncomfortably. That is not entirely… “I am here to fight at your side, no matter the cause. Until the end.”

Thorns, he didn't mean for it to come out like _that_. Trahearne’s eyes widen slightly as his words settle in the air. Then he ducks his head to scratch the back of his neck and laughs again, low and soft. It is too warm a sound—it makes Roza want to question everything all over again. Trahearne doesn’t like him, he knows that. But he… _he_ doesn’t…

“That gives me confidence in my mission.” Roza is stirred from his thoughts when the marshal speaks. “How could I doubt such staunch conviction? You always seem far more certain of whatever we are doing than I am. It is reassuring.”

That is news to Roza. “Truly?” He pauses with a frown, searching Trahearne’s yellow eyes for offence, but finds none. “I would have thought the opposite, to be frank. You have never so much as hinted at these doubts you say you have. This is the first time I have been aware of them, and it is only because you are telling me.”

“Well, that is good. I can’t exactly have anyone else knowing, or this whole operation would fall apart, wouldn’t it?”

That pulls a huff of amusement from Roza’s chest before he can stifle it. He beats back a smile, averting his gaze. _Not_ friends. They are not friends.

“You give me too much credit.” The low timbre of Trahearne’s voice interrupts his thoughts once more. “You have not faltered for even a moment since we began. Against my fleeting weakness, you have been strong.”

Roza feels his shoulders loosen. He turns away, walking across the tent with his hands locked behind his back. Should he object to that? He can. It is a lie. Or he could let it be. It is a helpful one.

He draws in a measured breath, letting it out for a count of five. By the time it is gone, he has made his decision. “That is… not entirely true,” he says carefully. He glances back over his shoulder.

Trahearne is frowning. “I see. In that case, you have a confidant in me if you ever need to air your doubts, Roza. I more than understand.”

Oh, if it were only that simple. “They are not doubts, exactly.” He turns on his heel, pacing back. He is choosing to reveal a weakness. He cannot take it back. “Fine. I will tell you something, but you cannot tell a soul.”

Trahearne presses a hand to his chest. “It will be kept in the utmost confidence,” he murmurs with curious eyes.

There is no use in stalling. Roza locks his jaw, stiffens his spine, and says, “I have these… reactions. Negative ones. If something happens that worries me enough, I become stuck. I panic. I cannot breathe properly.”

Even explaining the phenomenon, he can feel his chest start to tighten. He clears his throat, purposefully weighting his breaths. “These episodes only last for a short time, but the fallout lingers. The longest I have felt the effects of one was an entire day. After—”

He grits his teeth, looking away. “After Syska,” he admits.

When he forces himself to look back at Trahearne—because he is not a coward—he finds his face open and sympathetic. For some reason, it makes him want to run. He digs in his heels.

“That is why you were behaving like that,” Trahearne says, half to himself. He inclines his head. “Thank you for trusting me enough to share this, Roza. I am honoured. I think I know of what you speak; I have rarely experienced such a thing before, but I have heard of others’ accounts. If it ever happens again, you can tell me. I will help you.”

Roza scoffs before he can bite it back. Help him? Trahearne has never wanted to help him. Not when he was a sapling, and not when…

He turns his head to the side, running his tongue over his teeth and cooling his eyes when they prick with heat. No.

“Is something the matter?” Trahearne’s tone arches slightly.

Roza should cut his losses and leave. He knows better than to provoke someone in a position of power over him. This will not end well.

“You would help a nuisance such as I?” he snipes, glaring in challenge.

He watches Trahearne’s visible confusion as he turns over the words, no doubt trying to match them to a memory to see if they make sense. Of course he doesn’t remember. What is one little joke if it is mocking Roza, after all? What is he but a target, after all?

He strides brusquely towards the exit flap, fully intending to let this conversation wither and die in flames. That is what he does best. Who was he to think that this would be any different? That he could salvage this relationship, let alone get Trahearne to like him? Fool. There is not a sane person in Tyria who is willing to burn their standards to the ground for _him_. Laranthir must have a few screws loose.

“Roza, wait!”

It is the lack of acerbity in Trahearne’s plea that catches him. Roza comes to a halt, rooted to the ground. His chest heaves with rapid breaths. His hands clench, unclench. He has to be angry. The anger stays the—the anger helps him. It is all he has.

“That was your own word,” Trahearne says softly.

Roza shuts his eyes. The silence curls around them, charged and bitter.

“You threw it back at me in a moment of weakness,” he replies as he opens them. His tone is impassive. He does not care. He knows how this will end. What is it all for, in the end? Is it worth all of this? Is it worth the brittle pain in his chest, the aborted howl of an injured beast in his throat?

More silence. Roza tells himself he does not hate it. He hates it. He wishes Trahearne would just pull rather than twist the knife. End it quickly.

“I am sorry.” Trahearne’s voice drifts to his ears. “I never meant to be the cause of such pain.”

He turns around slowly. Trahearne is simply watching him, still and sombre. Roza’s lip curls. _You give yourself too much credit,_ he prepares to bite back, but the words catch in his throat. Too hot to be the truth.

Instead, he tries to pull himself in. He is leaking emotion like a stuck hog, he realizes with an internal wince. How humiliating. Deep breath, distance himself. He can do this.

He has to try twice before he can speak. “It doesn’t matter,” finally clicks out.

“I know.” Trahearne gentles in a way Roza has come to associate uncomfortably with Laranthir, and oh, does that _grate._ “Intention matters little once a wound is given. Please believe that—”

“Stop it.” Roza sharpens his tongue. “That is not what I meant.”

Trahearne waits. Roza waits too, for what he doesn’t know. Once he finds it, he continues, “It doesn’t matter. About the pain. Fuck the pain. It doesn’t matter because the person I would have been without it is lost forever. He isn’t coming back. I will wade through this poisonous mire of a world, and I will ensure that dragon is dead, and then I am _out_.” His gaze unlatches. “I will cut my chains. And you will not have to deal with me, and the world will not have to deal with me. So it doesn’t _matter_ ,” He bares his teeth, “that you’re _sorry_.”

Silence for the length of an arduous breath. Another one.

“I hope,” Trahearne scrapes out, “That come that day, you will reconsider.”

Roza lets out a terrible, bitter laugh. Trahearne shakes his head, denying him his objection.

“No. Forgive me for being so direct, but there is a part of you that is screaming inside, Roza. One that does not want the pain, the anger, the loneliness. The part whom I saw in that moment of ‘ _weakness.’_ You _can_ smile, and laugh, and feel all the joy life has to offer. I remember that as a sapling, you used to look at me with the most brilliant, wondering eyes, full of inspiration I never earned.”

“You _hated_ that sapling.” Roza cannot stop his voice from rending. “You never wanted anything to do with me!”

He strides forwards, barely minding how fast he moves. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, Trahearne. I just thought that that was how people were _supposed_ to think of me. You dismissed me, and scolded me, and never once praised me for anything I did well. You never even pretended to care about me! Not while I was your student, and certainly not after you kicked me away to the Vigil!”

He ends his tirade with warm, wet eyes. He swipes at them angrily, nearly knocking Trahearne in the head with his elbow but not caring. He cares a little. He does not want to.

Trahearne is blinking repeatedly. He swallows. “Roza, I…”

“Of course you never cared,” Roza mutters, tipping his head back. It will leave faster that way. “Why would someone like you give a shit about someone like me? I was never worth your attention. Don’t know why you sent all those damn letters. Impulsive suggestion you never figured out how to back out of, huh?”

He stretches his lips over his teeth, trying to look anything other than pained. He doubts he is terribly successful.

“Do not say such things.” Trahearne sounds strange again, his voice deep and guttural. “None of that is true, Roza. And I…” He takes a shaky breath. “I never realized you were carrying all of this around. I never meant to…. You are right. Not—in—I didn’t not care about you. I did. I do. But,” He bows his head. “I should never have let you get that impression. You deserved better. I’m sorry.”

Why is he speaking his lies so oddly, in such short, specific sentences? Roza peers at him, frowning, and their eyes meet for half a second before Trahearne’s flick away. Is he… crying?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Roza hisses before he can stop himself. Why is _he_ upset? Why isn’t he angry? Why isn’t he defending himself? He has no right to stand there, shoulders slumped, quiet and—and—sad. It should not make _Roza_ want to be sad. “Stop it.”

Trahearne’s grieving gaze meets his once more, and he makes a face at it automatically, a defensive baring of his incisors. “I’m—”

“ _Don’t_ say ‘sorry.’ You’re not. You never were. You never had so much as a single nice thought about me.” Roza has to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from physically pushing him away. Contrary to Trahearne, his words speed up as he speaks, arcing in pitch. “You never even liked me! Tell me you did not. Tell me you were glad to throw me away.”

“I understand if you need to be angry at something.” Trahearne sounds far too subdued. “And I understand if it has to be me. But… you were my student, Roza.” His voice quietens. “Of course I thought of you fondly from time to time. I often wondered how you were doing. I… I’m sorry I never told you how proud I was of you.”

Fuck him. _Fuck_ this. Roza’s mouth creases. “You weren’t,” he entreats hoarsely.

Trahearne smiles sadly. “I was. You were my best student. Intelligent, ambitious, frighteningly quick on the uptake… The Vigil would have chased you for years even if I had not written them a letter of recommendation. I was entrusting you to them, not discarding you.”

Roza briefly closes his eyes so he can dry them more effectively, even if the chill hurts. He is not going to talk about the Vigil with Trahearne. Not now, probably not ever. “You… wrote a letter of recommendation?”

Trahearne nods. “I did. To General Soulkeeper herself, and later Laranthir of the Wild when he sent me a request for more information. They seemed quite impressed with you.”

Roza… does not know what to do with all of this information. It is a lot. He needs time to process it, and then… later. Later, he will decide.

“If I may ask,” Trahearne ventures. Roza glances up at him with a frown, which he seems to take as a confirmation. “I was actually wondering about the letters. The ones we wrote each other, I mean. Am I understanding correctly that mine weren’t, uh, well-received?”

Ah. Roza crosses his arms as he considers how to answer that. He had kept all of Trahearne’s letters, although he will never willingly admit it to him. The letters and his two books—one of them stolen—were his sole possessions. They are tucked away in his room in Fort Trinity now, safe underneath his bed. He wonders if he should say that he burnt them all.

“You always wrote very formally.” Trahearne scratches the back of his neck, apparently spurred into elaboration by his silence. “And never about yourself. I got the impression that perhaps you were, ah, simply indulging a nosy old mentor.”

He gives a self-conscious little smile. Roza shifts uneasily, not wanting to say too much. “I liked your letters,” he finally mumbles. Short and simple is good. It doesn’t reveal anything more than what it absolutely has to.

That eases some of the tension from Trahearne’s form. Roza’s unease grows, although he isn’t entirely certain as to why. He isn’t as angry anymore; perhaps it is that. But he has shocked, upset, and guilted Trahearne. Should that not feel significant? Or at least satisfying, in some petty way?

It does not. It only leaves him feeling hollow and drained, as if he is a shell his emotions discarded after they went on their rampage. He does not want to hurt Trahearne, he realizes. Not like he usually wants to hurt the people who wound him.

“Roza… whether your intentions were good or ill, I thank you for speaking to me about this.” Trahearne’s voice has softened again. “I… understand things much better now, I think. Hah. I always thought something felt off when we spoke, but I could never quite put my finger on what it was.”

He smiles wanly. “Now I know.”

Roza averts his gaze. “I suppose I have a lot to reconsider. I do not know…” He hates asking for help. He _hates_ it. “You will have to be patient with me,” he mumbles near incomprehensibly.

Trahearne seems to comprehend him nevertheless. “Take your time,” he says, reaching a sympathetic hand out towards Roza’s shoulder. It freezes at the last moment, then curls and falls. Ouch.

Roza makes a stilted gesture towards the tent flap. “I—have to go,” he lies badly.

“Of course. I will not keep you.” Trahearne tries to smile at him again. “I hope you have a restorative evening, Roza. And… I hope we can truly be friends. One day.”

“One day,” Roza echoes, and all but flees.

That… happened. For good or ill, and now it is behind them both. And ahead is what? The tattered remnants of what was already a fragile acquaintanceship? An _actual_ other friend? Well, no. Roza isn’t quite desperate enough to believe that yet.

As time passes, things proceed more or less smoothly. There are a few expected bumps on the road, but they are not caused by Roza and Trahearne, who communicate with each other clearly and efficiently. There is apparently a lot less wasted time to be had when they do away with feigned congeniality. However, Trahearne becomes quieter in a manner Roza finds very familiar, and although he tells himself he doesn’t care, he cannot help but feel somewhat… well, not sympathetic. Guilty, perhaps.

It may be why, when they finally manage to cleanse Orr a few weeks later, Roza casts his sharp mind aside and gives his marshal a hug without thinking very much of it at all.

~*~

It is… late.

Roza stands on the ramparts of Fort Trinity with his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of the cool night breeze threading through his branches and ruffling his leaves. It is the perfect hour for reflection, for introspection. He has been spending it wondering if he still hates himself.

He opens his eyes when he feels a tentative, if naturally guarded presence poke into his awareness. He smiles without meaning to—he can recognize his marshal even without the help of the Dream-reach rituals he has been testing lately. He sifts through the projection, curious, and fishes out a hint of apprehension. His pointless smile lingers.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to jump,” he says without turning his head.

Trahearne walks up from behind him. “I did not truly think you would, but thank you for the reassurance nevertheless,” he replies softly. He stops next to Roza, clasping his hands behind his back and gazing out over the ocean.

He is—close. Roza feels his cheeks warm, although he does not know why. Perhaps he is ill. He has been… noticing things about Trahearne lately. How regally he holds himself. How temperate yet knowing his eyes are. _How tantalizingly enigmatic he is_ , slithers a sly voice that sounds suspiciously like Laranthir’s, and he gives it an annoyed mental kick. Damn the man for clearing a space for all of those garbage books to rot in Roza’s near-flawless memory.

He is certain it is nothing. Just a strange fixation, perhaps. Roza has never met anyone like Trahearne before, and he is still young, so he must be easily impressed. Every firstborn probably has that—that wise and mature, but gentle and surprisingly sweet aura to them. Probably. Even Niamh.

“How are you feeling tonight, Commander?” Trahearne asks quietly, still facing ahead.

Ah. Roza glances at him with a frown, trying to interpret his tone. He is overanalysing a simple statement, he knows, but what else is he supposed to do with it? He cannot even walk near the menders’ tent if he is having a particularly depressing day. He has been stopped by a hand on his shoulder and an invasively sympathetic query more times than he is comfortable with.

“Fine,” he replies evenly.

Now Trahearne does look at him, with a flash of concern. Roza sighs inwardly and steels himself, preparing to say that yes, he really is fine, and no, even if he wasn’t, he certainly _wouldn’t_ want to talk about it, no matter how eager Trahearne—or whoever—may be to bear his emotional baggage.

But his marshal just smiles a little and says, “Aha, I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t worry.”

Oh. Roza ducks his head, colouring faintly. He sweeps his eyes over Trahearne’s face with carefully constructed carelessness, studying him. He does not see much that is easily discernable besides perhaps a hint of amusement.

He tugs at one of his smaller branches with his fingertips. “I am mostly fine, Trahearne,” he murmurs. “I am taking a moment to reflect. Wondering if the asura would pathologize this.”

Trahearne considers him thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he suggests, without Roza even needing to specify what “this” refers to. Oh, he should not be thrilled over such a small thing. He probably _is_ ill.

“Do you want me to take your mind off things?” Trahearne asks out of nowhere.

Roza’s fingers spasm as he accidentally plucks a small leaf off his head. “Do I—what?”

“Want me to talk about something else to distract you,” Trahearne clarifies. “It can help, I find, if your mind dwells on subjects too dark for comfort.”

Oh. Of course that is what he meant. “Sure, you can—sure,” Roza says, trying to forcibly dim his telltale glow. He thinks it works.

“Hm.” Trahearne taps his hand on the stone parapet, then turns around and hoists himself up on it. “I spoke to Laranthir the other day. He told me he mentored you when you were in the Vigil.”

Roza climbs up next to him, accepting the helpful arm when it is offered (if it is just the two of them, he isn’t short—he is normal). So Laranthir finally yapped, did he? Hopefully he didn’t reveal anything too incriminating.

“What did he say?”

“He said that you were… in a difficult situation, although he didn’t elaborate much further. You were going to get kicked out, he told me, but then you name-dropped me, so he agreed to help you.”

That startles a laugh out of Roza’s chest. “That is certainly an angle I have never considered,” he says with a smile he cannot quite stifle. Trahearne smiles back, and after a warm beat he looks away.

“No. I did mention you, I think. But Laranthir helped me because he was a bleeding heart, and I was in a bad place. He was the first person to ever truly care about me. He taught me… everything, by the Tree. Everything. He saved my life.”

Something unreadable flashes in Trahearne’s eyes, but it is gone before Roza has a chance to identify it. “He saved your life? Did something happen?”

Roza sighs quietly. He leans back on his hands, tipping his head up to look at the stars overhead. Trahearne had once pointed out a couple of constellations to him, but the majority of them are unfamiliar. Roza hopes, secretly, to one day get an opportunity to study under Malomedies, the great firstborn astronomer and mathematician. He will probably never earn such a lucky twist of fate, but… he rarely has such dreams. He will allow himself this small one.

“I spent every day thinking about how worthless I was,” he tells the night air. Spoken out loud, the words sound so much more serious than the feeling ever had inside his head. He just barely hears Trahearne suck in a breath beside him, but he continues. “I wasn’t wanted back in Caledon. I wasn’t—I didn’t feel wanted in the Vigil. Whether it was true or not, I felt as if people I had never met hated me, and I knew for certain that not a single soul liked me. There was a certain stretch of time when I… felt like I would be making it easier on everyone if I simply hurled myself off the nearest roof. I was well down the path to doing so.”

He glances at Trahearne, and finds his eyes solemn and strangely pained. “That is when Laranthir found me. He taught me that I could be… loved. So yes, he saved me.”

Trahearne swallows. “You felt that way even when you were but a month old?” To Roza’s quiet nod, in a softer tone: “Thorns. I had no idea.”

“To be honest, I don’t entirely understand it either.” Roza bares his teeth with a small, self-conscious laugh. “I have spoken to saplings as young as I used to be. None of them were even remotely as suicidal as I.”

He frowns. “It is strange how it is more or less all I have ever known. I am so intimately familiar with the darker twists of my thoughts, I sometimes forget not everyone else is as well.”

“The thought of ending our life has crossed the minds of most of us at some point, I think.” Trahearne’s long legs press against his briefly. “Even if we do not intend to do anything about it.”

“Even you?” Roza swings his ankles, taking some detached delight in the loose freedom of the movement.

Trahearne smiles at him sadly. “Even I. Although it has been a long time.”

Roza wonders vaguely but does not ask, and Trahearne does not elaborate further. Instead they simply sit there for a while, and after some time Roza hesitantly inches closer, until their thighs are barely touching. They are friends; it is not strange. Right?

Trahearne glances down at him and seems to smile. Roza dares not lean against him, because they are not _that_ close, but they can sit together like this, and it can be pleasant. So they do.

~*~

There is not much to say about the blurry stretch of time after Trahearne dies. Or perhaps there is, but Roza is still not ready to reflect on it.

It is a slow process.

~*~

Roza feels… so strange.

He is not ill, or irritable, or weak from lack of sunlight and malnutrition. He is not his usual indifferent normal, so drenched in apathy he can barely tell a good conversation from a bad one. That is one thing he thought he had learned long ago: most conversations are games. There is a give and take, a push and pull. The ones that ignite a spark of something good come also, even if it is much later and only in the deep recesses of his heart, with a drop.

And yet…

The snow outside his new cabin has freshly fallen. It is still soft and delicate, in that rare transitional state that makes it sparkle beautifully in the sunlight. Roza wants to go outside just to admire it, perhaps capture its essence for a poem.

Even that is strange. He hasn’t had the urge to go outside just for the sake of it in years. Especially not during winter, of all seasons. Winter is frigid, ruthless, and wholly unforgiving. Much like himself, he’d always thought. But even now, the snow sparkles.

Roza hums to himself and tosses another log into his fireplace. The flames hiss and flare, and he finds himself smiling at the sight. Such a lively reaction! Imagine that: a fuel for life, however temporary. Provided by _him_.

The thought provokes a snort out of him, which tumbles into a long, ungraceful laugh. Him. Making life. It is so funny.

Laranthir walks in from the kitchen, stopping only to lean against the doorframe and stare at him, aghast. The poor bastard still has his oven mitts on. Roza should probably reassure him that he isn’t dying.

“It’s… because I’m a necromancer,” is all he manages before he collapses into a fit of giggles.

“… Alright,” Laranthir mutters, apparently to himself. He turns around and disappears into the kitchen once more. “Alright.”

Roza has mostly managed to calm down from his outburst when Laranthir joins him on the couch a few minutes later, oven mitts gone. He smells like brown sugar and cinnamon. Roza, unrepentant, sniffs him. And cedar.

He lets out a trill peal of laughter. “I could burn you for your fragrance!” It isn’t very funny, but right now it is. He is looking forward to the cookies—his spirits are high.

Laranthir sighs. “This is the last time I’m making you food,” he warns, though Roza knows it is an empty threat.

“Agh.” He makes a careless gesture with his hands. “That is too bad. I suppose I’ll just have to starve to death for want of you.”

The corners of Laranthir’s mouth settle. “Please don’t joke about that,” he says tightly.

Alright, alright. Roza doesn’t apologize, but after a few minutes he does get up and drift to the kitchen. “Do you want lunch?” he calls.

Laranthir appears in the doorway. “I’ll have to make sure you don’t burn the place down. We only just got it finished.”

Roza makes a neutral noise, neither committing to or denying the notion that he is that bad a cook. Cooking is still a new skill to him. He thinks he enjoys it, however. He likes how visceral it is—how he has to breathe a meal in, shape it, watch it in order for it to turn out remotely palatable. His first few attempts had been utterly disastrous, but his teacher had been patient with him, as he is always. Now Roza can prepare a few of Caledon’s simpler dishes with relative ease.

His sandwich rolls get abandoned halfway through when the oven timer goes off. (It is apparently a very distressing noise for Eirwen, who had been asleep in her new rooftop nest. She conveys this by screeching demonically, diving into a nearby snowbank, and barrelling into the kitchen through a large window that really should not be able to break that easily. Roza barely manages to fend her off as Laranthir rushes to stop the timer.) He spends the next fifteen minutes sweeping broken glass and snow out of his kitchen, and the sandwich rolls become Laranthir’s endeavor.

“We need to make you your own door, snowdrop. Yes we do,” Roza coos as he tosses a particularly large piece of glass into the trash.

Eirwen’s head feathers fluff. “HROOO,” she says angrily, and claws him in the arm.

She doesn’t like enclosed spaces. Roza sighs, and gets to clearing a large enough area in front of the window for her to step through.

Twenty minutes later he has contacted a more skilled glazier than the one who had originally worked on his cabin, and is sitting on his living room couch in front of the fireplace once more, bandaging his arm. Laranthir is perched next to him with the sandwich rolls, occasionally harassing him into taking a bite.

“Good as new,” Roza pronounces, spreading his fingers out.

“Wonderful. Please eat,” says Laranthir.

Roza makes a show of rolling his eyes, although he takes an obliging bite. “You’re such a bloody busybody,” he mutters through it.

Laranthir’s fingers on his plate tighten. “You know, what I never miss are all your terrible habits.”

Well. Roza finishes his half of the sandwich rolls.

He leans into Laranthir afterwards—not quite an apology, but a symbolic baring of his stomach. From the arm that wraps around his shoulders and the hand that squeezes his right one, he gathers it is accepted.

“Do you miss me?” he mumbles into Laranthir’s thick woolen sweater.

The warm body beneath it moves in a sigh. “Of course I do. Don’t be cruel, Roza.”

“I’m not.” Roza takes the empty plate from Laranthir’s loose grip and lays it on the nearby end table. He settles back, shifting around until he is comfortable.

“I simply forget, sometimes.” Wool generates static even when brushed against the waxy fingers of a sylvari, he discovers. “That others may feel as I do. That they can feel with the same _depth_ as I do. I know it is a narrow window through which to view life.”

Laranthir sighs again, long and slow. After a moment, Roza feels a hand weave through his branches.

“Thank you for inviting me up here,” Laranthir says softly. Roza warms.

“Yes, well, I needed some help,” he grumbles as indecipherably as he can.

“And you’ve been visiting more often to ask for it.” Fingertips tug at a leaf on his head, but do not pluck it off. “Thank you for that as well.”

Roza turns his face into Laranthir’s shoulder. His arm gets squeezed, and his solid pillow leans away for a moment…

… only to come back and press a ginger cookie into his hand. “I think they’ve cooled by now,” it says.

Oh! Roza straightens up and shoves the cookie into his mouth as gracefully as he can. Laranthir laughs, and he smiles back, for the moment forgetting himself.

Progress is slow. But it is there.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much if you stuck with me up til this point!! <3 as always i welcome any and all of your thoughts ;;u;
> 
> [lovely song for this one tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5aMav6q-o0)


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